Elaine Bedell - About That Night

Elizabeth tumbled out of the cab trailing her posy of wilting daffodils as Vic led her firmly to one of the round tables nailed to the pavement outside the Globe pub on the Euston Road. The few hardened drinkers still on their feet turned to stare at them over their pints. Vic put her Hermès bag on the table and Elizabeth noticed a yellow lawyer’s pad poking out of the top, as if her sister might find time during her wedding to catch up on a bit of casework.

‘What’s up?’ Vic had said briskly.

‘I don’t know… It just doesn’t feel right…’

‘Look, Lizzie, it’s just last-minute nerves. It’s fine. It’s Jamie! You’ve known him for ever! Being married isn’t any different.’

Elizabeth had torn unconsciously at the daffodil petals. She raised her panic-stricken face. ‘Vic, I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel we’ve rushed into this wedding. It was so lovely, being with your boys at the birthday party and in that moment, when Jamie proposed, I wanted that life so badly. The life that you have, Vic. A domestic life. Babies. So I organised the wedding really quickly, I thought Jamie was right, we’d waited long enough. But oh God…’ Elizabeth looked desperately at her sister. ‘I panicked, Vic. I panicked about Forever. About it being Jamie, and no one else, ever again.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I met this man at a work party, just a few days after Jamie proposed. And, Vic, he was so unlike anyone else I’ve ever been with! He was funny, he made me laugh and he was so interested in me and my job – and I don’t know, just so different to Jamie! He made me feel so good about myself. I thought I could have one last fling, I thought it wouldn’t matter. But of course it does matter – and I’ve felt so guilty ever since. But Vic, I can’t stop thinking about him!’

‘Oh, Lizzie! But it’s just the once? Just this one time?’

‘Yes. You know there’s never been anyone else, Vic. I’ve been longing to find the moment to tell Jamie, but the days seemed to race past and I couldn’t find the right moment. And every time we confirmed another detail of this wedding, I didn’t see how I could tell him! But now it feels like we’ll be starting our marriage all wrong.’

‘Oh, hon.’ Vic hugged her. ‘Look, Lizzie, let’s try and be practical. There are ten people waiting in that building over there for you to turn up like a blushing bride. And one of them is Jamie. Jamie, the boyfriend you’ve been with since uni. Jamie, who’s trying to save the world and who’s good and kind. You do want to marry him, right?’ There was a long pause. ‘Hello?’

Elizabeth looked at her sister in desperation. ‘Yes, I do. But oh, Vic, it feels so final! And I’ve only had sex with seven people! I keep thinking – is that enough to last me a lifetime?’

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s all about the maths, Lizzie. But I bet lots of brides go through this. I’m sure it’s really usual to panic about committing yourself to one man, for better or worse. Look, I’ll do whatever you want, but are you sure now is the time to tell Jamie? You made a mistake and you regret it. Maybe he never needs to know? Or maybe you can tell him, in time. But now? I’m not sure.’

Elizabeth nodded, numbly, and Vic was suddenly businesslike again. She found herself being propelled along the Euston Road towards Marylebone Town Hall. Large splashes of rain began to stain the apricot dress. Vic ran up the wide stone steps, half dragging Elizabeth behind her. At the town hall doors, she turned suddenly and said, ‘Who was it?’

‘What?’ Elizabeth was almost breathless. She tried to smooth down the damp creases in her dress.

‘Who was it? That you slept with?’

Elizabeth bit her lip. ‘Harry Hutchinson.’

‘Harry…? Wait. You mean Hutch? The guy who does that late night football show?’

‘Yes. And Vic, he’s married!’

‘Oh, Lizzie,’ was all that Vic said as she pushed open the doors to the town hall.

Elizabeth took two quick brisk turns around the block to pull herself together before walking into Paddington Green Police Station. The only time she’d been in a police station before was when she had to take in proof of her insurance after she’d been caught doing 89 mph down the A12 and sent on a National Speed Awareness Course (‘As if you need to be taught about speed, Miss Clumsy,’ Hutch had said consolingly, as she threw herself on to his bed, clutching a new copy of The Highway Code .) She was greeted by DS Rafik, the young sweating sergeant who’d been in the dressing room the night before. His eyes were like two brightly polished buttons in the fleshy cushion of his face. He walked quickly, despite the extra pounds, and she had to half run to keep up with him, down the bland, windowless corridors, doors all closed, walls devoid of any kind of decoration. She found herself babbling nervously. ‘You could do with some pictures. Maybe a cartoon or two. You know, something to help innocent members of the public, like me, who have to come in and give statements feel more at home.’

‘I hope your home isn’t anything like this.’ The sergeant opened the door to an office with two desks crammed together underneath a barred window. An uncovered light bulb was hanging from a ceiling rose. Someone had put a cactus plant on one of the desks, which simply added to the general feeling of dismal discomfort.

‘Wow!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Did you get your inspiration for interior design from Guantánamo Bay?’

A pink flush crept upwards from the folds of the sergeant’s neck, but he stopped himself from smiling. He moved a pile of folders from a hard-backed chair, dropping some papers as he did so, and flustered, gestured for Elizabeth to sit on it. He offered her a coffee, pointing apologetically at a kettle on the window sill and a box of Nescafé sachets.

Elizabeth grimaced. ‘No chance of a skinny double shot latte, I suppose? Maybe a basket of muffins? Haven’t you got a runner?’

He looked at her, bemused. She shrugged off her raincoat. ‘I’m sorry. I think I’m making terrible jokes because I’m nervous.’

He nodded, but before he could speak the door opened again and banged into Elizabeth’s chair. It was Detective Inspector Watson. She smelled strongly of apples. Her blonde hair was loosely swept up into a knot and fastened with a surprisingly girly pink scrunchie. She was wearing black trousers and a shirt the colour of cornflowers. Her arms were toned and tanned. She wore no make-up and, fresh-faced, looked younger than she had last night. Elizabeth guessed they must be about the same age.

‘Hello, DI Karen Watson. Sorry, not much room.’ The detective inspector went to sit at the remaining desk, the one with the cactus. She flipped open a notebook, picked up a pen, inspected it, and then lobbed it across the room, where it tipped neatly into a waiting wastepaper basket. She picked up another pen, inspected it again and wrote something on the open page. Finally, she looked up.

‘Good shot,’ offered Elizabeth.

‘County netball team. Wing attack.’ DI Karen Watson leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.

‘Still plays,’ added the sergeant proudly.

‘Tuesdays only,’ the DI said pointedly.

Elizabeth found herself saying, ‘What’s wrong with Saturdays? Or Sundays? I’ve heard weekends are good for sport.’

The DI looked at her sharply. ‘Well, you see, the women I play with mostly have husbands, some of them have kids, and so they can’t play netball at the weekend. Tuesday is their only opportunity to get out of the house.’

‘Gosh,’ said Elizabeth, genuinely struck. ‘And they spend their only evenings off playing netball? When they could be necking sauvignon blanc in the wine bar? That’s dedication.’